The Blind Man

"The Blind Man"
Mark 10:46-52


A small group of children ran down the alley past Timaeus’ shop.  This in itself was not unusual.  But it seemed more and more groups of people were going past, and all heading in the same direction.

He watched people as they bustled down the way.  They would look up the side alleys toward the main streets as if they were searching for something in particular.  None of these people were stopping to look at his or anyone else’s wares.  Timaeus was a weaver.  One of the only weavers in Jericho.  There were so few because if they wanted wool, they would have to make their way up out of the Jericho valley to the highlands where most of the shepherding was done.  The roads out of Jericho were dangerous.  It was more than once that Timaeus had been robbed.

In spite of it, he had been successful.  He was good at his craft.  Even though his shop was not on any of the main streets, people still searched him out.  No one could mix colors like Timaeus.  His was a secret art, not only of work on the loom, but also of the chemistry of color.  Not only the mixing of the colored dyes themselves, but of blending the colors in the blankets and mats and material that he would weave.  No one in all of the Jericho region could artfully weave a design like Timaeus.

His work swelled his pride.  But it was also a great sadness.  Sadness because he was getting old.  It was time he should have been passing on the ways of his shop to his son.  But his son was blind.  When a boy, his son had become sick.  The sickness, for some unknown reason lodged itself in the boy’s eyes.  When the sickness left him, so had his eyesight.  He had learned his father’s work before his blindness. He could continue to weave.  But he could no longer see the colors.  He could not mix them anymore.  Nor could he create a design.

His feelings of worthlessness, heightened by the sense of his father’s deep disappointment, acted as double millstones around the boy’s neck, crushing his spirit.  For the next 20 years Timaeus’ son, Bartimaeus, had sat with the other outcasts, just outside the gates, begging from people as they would go in and out of the city.

Each time Timaeus had to make his trek to buy his wool, he hurried out of the city, past his son, knowing his namesake couldn’t see him.  Besides, he could hardly recognize his son, what with those dirty clothes, sometimes fastened wrong, sometimes on backwards.  Hair and beard that looked like they had been trimmed with sheep shears.  No sandals on his feet.  Sitting on a woolen mat made by someone other than himself.  In his heart, Timaeus couldn’t really see his son, either.  It was too hard to really look.  Too painful.  So he chose not to, each time he passed by, keeping his eyes to the road ahead of him, closing his ears to the cry of his son’s voice calling out, “Have mercy on me.”


When people came down the alley, past his shop, they would usually stop and chat with Timaeus, just so they could look at his work.  Timaeus got to know many people that way.  So his curiosity began to rise as those small groups of people hurriedly walked past his and the other shops along the way.  He lay his crimson colored yarn beside the loom, and followed after a group of two men and a woman.  It was hard for his stout body with its short stumpy legs to keep up.  I have spent too much of my time just sitting on that stool before my loom; my belly will catch up to them five minutes before I do, he thought to himself with a chuckle.

He recognized one of the trio as being Yosha, the wife of an innkeeper.  Finally overtaking them, his little legs still paddling along, Timaeus greeted Yosha and asked between breaths, “What -- are -- you -- looking for;  why -- all this -- scurrying about, and searching -- as if -- for a lost dog?”
“Jesus the Rabbi, the one some are calling the Messiah, is here,” Yosha said hurriedly.  She looked down a side alley as she talked.  “He is on his way back to Jerusalem where he will be crowned as the new king over Israel.”
“Jesus?” Timaeus asked.  “I have heard a little about him.  But I confess I have been spending more time at my looms than in the marketplace.  What I have heard I have not paid much attention to.  Should have I?”

The three stopped in their tracks.  With the weight of his momentum, it took a couple of steps before Timaeus could stop himself and back up.  The three of them looked at each other and then at the short, dark-eyed man wiping his brow with the back of his long artistic fingers.  “Yes, you should have paid more attention.  You should have heard him for yourself.  With your yarns you can weave the colors of the rainbow.  But with his words he weaves the colors of life--more brilliant than you can imagine.  You would have to give all the tapestries you have ever woven to equal the value of one of his healing words of life.”
One of the other men broke in, “Yes.  We would follow him everywhere to hear such words.  They say, though we have not seen it ourselves, that he does wonders.  We are following him to Jerusalem; but so are many others.  We run down the side alleys trying to move past the greatest part of the crowd, so that we might get closer to him and his disciples.  Maybe we will see one of his miracles.”
“Come if you will,” Yosha said as she touched Timaeus’ arm.  “But we must hurry.  They should be near the city gates by now.”
Timaeus hesitated with his hand on his brow.  “Go on ahead,” he finally said, waving them on.  “I will catch up with you later.”
“Don’t hesitate too long,” Yosha called back after she hustled on with the others.  “You might miss him.”

Timaeus decided he would take that chance.  He would have to close up his shop, which he didn’t exactly want to do--he might miss a sale.  And besides, he loved his work.  He needed no Messiah.  His work was his savior.  For in its concentration he felt like he could transport himself to brighter places.  “My loom is my altar,” he told his Rabbi.  “It’s here where I say my prayers and share in the creative power of God.”  Happy with his decision, Timaeus plodded back to his shop, while others, heading in the opposite direction, brushed by him.



Jesus had already gone through the gates of the city and was on his way up the road that passed the long rows of beggars.  Though it was impossible to keep from seeing them, it was hard to hear their pleas for help above the rolling, discordant sounds of the large crowd behind him.

Uncharacteristically, Jesus walked right on past the beggars and castaways, unheeding the cries of the square-pegged people pushed out and away from the round-holed society within the walls of the city.  There was a look of determination on Jesus’ face, even detachment, as if he were oblivious to the parade that followed him, or the many cries coming from along the sides.

One of the beggars, blind Bartimaeus, struggled to his feet and grabbed for the first passerby he could latch on to.  “What is happening?” he blurted out.  The man whose cloak he had grabbed shoved Bartimaeus back to the gravely ground without an answer.  Again he struggled to his feet and made snatches at others who walked by, only to be, again and again, brushed off or pushed away.

The other beggars would only do what they had always done: beat their staffs on the ground, or clomp their wooden bowls together trying to attract attention.  But Bartimaeus would not be denied.  He threw himself into the crowd and frantically began half shouting questions.  “Why this crowd?  What is happening?  Where is everyone going?”  Finally someone told him that Jesus was passing by.

Jesus, he thought to himself.  Every destitute person along that row knew about Jesus.  They had heard of him and of the miracles he was working amongst the blind and the lame.  He had dreamed so long of regaining his vision, that he could almost see himself seeing again.  If only I could get to Jesus.

Bartimaeus began pushing his way in the direction he thought the crowd was moving.  But with each step forward he was shoved two back.  “You’re getting to be a little irritating, blind man,” came a comment from his left.
“You certainly are a bother,” came another from the same direction.
“Don’t you know to keep your place, beggar,” came a deep voice from his right.  “And your place...” the voice continued, as Bartimaeus felt a strong arm grabbing and thrusting him out of the crowd, “...is over here!”  Two large hands fell on his shoulders and collapsed Bartimaeus to the ground, as if he were a piece of cardboard being folded up.

He was out of the crowd now.  All he could think was that Jesus was getting farther and farther away; and so was his chance at sight again.

Jesus had slowed up his pace, and the expression on his face changed.  His attention diverted from whatever it was on before.  He was listening to other voices now.

“Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!” Bartimaeus was shouting, up on his feet again.  If he couldn’t get through the crowd, he would shout over it.  Again and again he shouted, “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!”
“There now,” came a voice from the crowd.  “What makes you think you’re so special that Jesus would stop this whole procession just to turn and look at you?  Go on about your business, beggar.  Here’s some money.” Some coins fell at Bartimaeus’ feet.  “Go buy yourself some bread and stuff it in your mouth.  Maybe that’ll shut you up.”

Bartimaeus picked up the money, but kept on shouting.  “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!”  Louder and louder he attempted his shouting.
“You’re one of those pushy beggars, aren’t you?” a woman’s voice shot at him.  “Won’t be satisfied with what little you got; always think you gotta have more.  Well stay out’a our way--you aren’t gettin’ nothin’ here.”

“Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!”
“What do you think Jesus is going to do for you, beggar man--fill your wine skin so you can stay drunk with all your beggar buddies?  That’s all you want, isn’t it?  Money so you can drink the world away?”

“Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!”
“Maybe,” another voice said, “he thinks Jesus is going to make him see again.”  Laughter rippled through that section of the crowd.  “It isn’t going to happen, blind man.  So put a lid on it will ya, and get back with the rest of your kind.”

Fainter now came the cry, “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.”  The thumping of the staffs, the steady clomp of the beggars bowls beating together, the shuffle of the feet of the crowd every onward, all this persisted.  But Bartimaeus’ shouts, and his wrestling with the indifferent crowd had tired him.  He fell to his knees.  To himself, more than anyone else, through tears of frustration born of rejection he mumbled his prayer one more time, “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.”

Unknown to Bartimaeus, who wouldn’t have been able to see it anyway--as he was so painfully reminded by the crowd--Jesus stopped walking.  He was just standing for a few moments, looking half way up the road, and then down at the road in front of his sandaled feet.

Turning to his disciple Andrew, he whispered something in his ear.  Turning to face the huge crowd, Andrew spoke back to Jesus.  “Which man, Lord?  There must be over a thousand in this crowd.”  Jesus again leaned toward Andrew and spoke quietly but commandingly his request.  Andrew nodded and began to make his way back through the crowd, who at this point had all but stopped.

As Andrew angled his way toward the beggars row, a man with a strong grip stopped him and asked what was going on.  Andrew looked at the man’s face, then down at the branch-like fingers that were wrapped around his arm and said, “Jesus wishes that a certain blind man be brought forward to him.”  The man leaned jerkingly away from Andrew’s face, but still held on for a moment.
“I know which one,” said the man to Andrew.  “I will bring him.”
Andrew cocked his head and looked up at the man.  “Bring him,” Andrew finally consented.

The man pushed his way back to where he thought the blind man was.  Finally looking down, he saw Bartimaeus kneeling on the ground with his face in his hands.
“Blind man,” the big man said in a coarse but comforting tone.  Bartimaeus continued to look at the ground.  He recognized the man’s voice.  It was one of his abusers.  Had he come back for more?  Could the man not see that he was beaten?  All the powers of a crowd of people whose bodies were whole, had been used to demean and batter the life and spirit of one who was not.
“Blind man,” the man said again, this time putting his strong hands gently around Bartimaeus’ shoulders.  “Be of good comfort,” said the man.  At that point the man began to gently lift Bartimaeus up to his feet.  “Come; Jesus is wanting to see you.  I will take you there.”  Bartimaeus looked up with his white centered eyes toward where he though the man’s face was.  A different kind of fear spread over Bartimaeus, and his spirit began to tremble.

The man with the big hands led Bartimaeus through the crowed to Andrew.  Andrew nodded and joined them as they made their way toward Jesus.  The clomping of the bowls and the rattling of the staffs had stopped.  There was a low murmur in the crowd that followed the three as they approached Jesus.  Bartimaeus could sense the people opening up and moving away as they worked their way through the crowd.  “It must be like the Red Sea parting,” he said to the strong man.
“It is at that,” the man replied.

The three men stopped in front of Jesus.  Jesus looked at the big man, then at Andrew, and then to blind Bartimaeus he said, “I heard you cry out to me.  I heard it all,” and he said this as he looked at the big man.  Turning back to Bartimaeus, Jesus asked, “What do you want me to do for you?”
Bartimaeus hesitated for a moment, because now his request seemed so selfish.  Nonetheless he stammered out his wish, “Lord, that I might receive my sight.”

The crowd had packed in tightly together, in order to see and hear what was going on.  Jesus gazed at the crowd of naysayers, whose ways of being had been more “No,” than “Yes.”  Then with compassion in his voice, Jesus concentrated his look upon Bartimaeus and simply said, “Go your way; your faith has made you whole.”

Immediately Bartimaeus’ sight was back.  All he saw was total brightness, as if he had come out of a darkened room into the bright sun of midday.  As his new eyes adjusted, the first thing he saw was Jesus, smiling; even his eyes smiled.  “I can see!” Bartimaeus said with a hush.  And then with a quick pivot toward the crowd, looking out over them all he raised his arms straight at the sky and shouted, “I can see! Thanks to Jesus, I can see!”

A great cheer went up from the crowd.  Bartimaeus was looking, through his tears of joy and thanksgiving, at everything he could--a world that was once only deep and impenetrable darkness, was now a dance of color and movement.


At the sound of the crowd cheering, Timaeus looked up from his loom in the direction of the din.  At the same time Bartimaeus was looking in the direction of the city, thinking of his father.  Timaeus shrugged and turned back to his loom.